A Hundred Tiny Moments
by dragonmactir
Summary: A collection of non-sequential vignettes about the characters, capturing individual moments in their lives.  A self-challenge to keep the brain lubed.  Rated M only because I don't know every destination the muse will lead me in advance.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **We're going to call it M simply because this could go anywhere.

**Spoilers: **Shouldn't be any, just dribble.

**A/N: **A series of quick "snapshot" moments in the lives of our characters, as a writer's exercise to cleanse my palate from all that angsty crap I'm writing in "A Shot to the Heart," and to calm my temper from the apparently frequent glitches this site seems heir to. Each "chapter" will stand as an exclusive vignette and will be inspired by a line from a song chosen off a randomly-selected album from my extensive collection of CDs, 8-Tracks, and Vinyl. (No, I don't have an MP3 player. I'm old and stubborn and I do _not_ think it is more convenient to have a hundred thousand songs stuffed into a tiny easily-lost device and backed up on my computer's already over-worked hard drive.)

Our first contender: "Paris on Ponce," a marvelous ditty by René Marie, pulled from the _Live at the Jazz Standard _album. There are a lot of _Psych_-related vignettes this song could inspire (_"…here you'll find geniuses and idiot savants, and debutantes…"_) but the lines I went with were these: "You see that woman beside you, with the beautiful eyes? She sits there so proper, so prim. When she says hello, that's when you realize it's not a her - it's a him!"

**THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS**

I am just finishing up my route when I get a call. Shawn, of course. He tells me to get my sweet chocolate-covered honey buns down to the station, pronto, to - _get this _- meet the hot lady detective who just took down the State Street Purse Snatchers.

"Dude, seriously, you've got to see this woman - she is so totally crush-worthy."

That Shawn. He's always accusing me of crushing on every woman we meet. It's not true, of course. Still, I can't see why my bubble-headed buddy's strange notions should keep me from checking out a new lady. After all, you never know, right?

So I don't _hurry_ over, the Blueberry is a company car after all. I drive at a respectable speed. Still, I'm there reasonably quickly, but not so quickly that someone might think I was, you know, _too eager_. I walk into the bullpen and I can see her right away, back-to, surrounded by Shawn and a whole gaggle of young officers and detectives. She's…tall. Well, no, not tall. If I am to tell you the truth she's freaking _enormous, _fully as tall as McNab in her shaky heels and she's got shoulders like a football player. But otherwise not exactly hard on the eyes, you know what I'm saying? Slim hips, great legs - it's pretty obvious she's not used to high heels but they're doing nice things for her backside, if you get my drift. Nothing wrong with a strong woman. It's kind of nice, sometimes, when they can bench-press you. She's dressed like the Church Lady, though, which is seriously not cool. If she sticks around, maybe Juliet can give her some fashion tips.

I probably should take a clue from the fact that everyone, Shawn included, seems just a little too jovial and jocular.

"Gus! Buddy! Come here and meet…_Carla,"_ Shawn calls when he sees me.

"Dammit, Spencer," I hear Detective Lassiter say, even though I don't see him yet, and I hope I miss out on the pleasure because he sounds _unusually _irritable today, "did you call that idiot Guster down here just to see this?"

That's when I reach them, and "Carla" turns around. There's not enough makeup at Max Factor to change _that _face into anything remotely feminine.

Lucky for me, Lassiter stalks off in his wobbly heels before my heart starts beating again. Everyone is laughing, and McNab is actually on the floor _rolling_, tears streaming down his big dumb face from laughing so hard he can't even breathe.

"Oh, Buddy - " Shawn says, once he has breath to, " - you should see your _face…"_

I'm about to punch _his _in, not that he gives a damn. The worst part isn't that he put one over on me like that, it's…well…from behind, Lassiter had some real potential.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **We're going to call it M simply because this could go anywhere.

**Spoilers: **Shouldn't be any, just dribble.

**A/N: **Next up, Gordon Lightfoot's "Rainy Day People," off of the greatest hits album Gord's Gold Volume I. The lines I chose are: "Rainy day people always seem to know when you're feelin' blue. High-steppin' strutters who land in the gutter sometimes need one, too." It's from Gus's POV again because no one is more "rainy day person" to the "high-steppin' strutter" that is Shawn Spencer.

**THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS**

Chief Vick is really, _really _angry, and I can tell because her face is turning faintly purple underneath that nice foundation makeup she wears. I'm actually a little worried about her, and I consider telling her about the dangers of high blood pressure and the attendant risk of stroke, heart attack, and aneurysm, but now probably isn't the best time. Besides, I know what's making her temperature soar, and he's standing right beside me.

"But Chief, I was _sure_ that was where they were hiding the smuggled diamonds," Shawn pleads. I just wish he'd stop _whining_ so much, because it's only making the Chief angrier. Lassiter is behind us, and Shawn's whining is probably making _him_ think of horrible, painful, violent things to do to us, too.

"Well, it _wasn't, _Mr. Spencer," Chief Vick says. "It was where they were hiding _six tons of fresh-caught yellowjack tuna. _It took my detectives _three days _to make absolutely certain that the diamonds weren't buried somewhere in that pile or in one of the fish, and by that time 'fresh' was no longer an adjective you could use to describe those tuna. Now the cannery wants restitution for the lost revenue _and_ my head detective _still _smells like a rotting tuna fish."

"I'm sending my dry cleaning _and_ water bills to Psych, Spencer," Lassiter growls. "I've taken _eight _showers in the last ten hours."

He needs at _least_ eight more. I do feel kind of sorry for the guy, and I suppose I kind of admire the dedication it took for him to personally supervise the search, but still…this is a man who should not be allowed in any enclosed space - like the Chief's office - for a few days.

"It would've been a great hiding place," Shawn pouts. "It's not _my_ fault that the Spirits were wrong."

It's the wrong thing to say. Shawn is my best buddy in the whole wide world, but he is _very_ good at picking the _exact _wrong thing to say.

"Mr. Spencer, your agency is hereby fired from this case. You are _not_ allowed back in this department until you are called. Detective Lassiter, would you like to do the honors?"

"Gladly, Chief." He steps forward and grabs both of us by the shoulders. He's not exactly the biggest or most intimidating physical specimen in the world but his hands are hard as steel and twice as strong. He drags us out of the office and to the exit, and pushes us outside without so much as a "Have a nice day." Not that I would have expected one from him even under better circumstances.

Shawn stands on the front steps with his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep in his jeans' pockets. He looks so damn crestfallen that I really can't help feeling sorry for him, even though I _told_ him he was wrong when he said he thought the diamond smugglers were going to stash their loot on the docks. I mean, honestly, the docks? Too much traffic.

"Hey, Shawn, come on. It's okay. I mean, yeah, sure, you screwed up pretty big on this one, and there's no way Lassie's ever going to forgive you for the fish stink, and we got fired and we're going to get charged a lot of money and we're not going to get _paid…" _I have to stop because I can feel my own blood pressure rising. "Hey, there'll be other cases."

Shawn scuffs at the concrete with the toe of his sneaker. "Yeah, I guess…"

"Come on, let's go get some ice cream."

He perks up instantly. "Ice cream!"

I put my arm around his shoulders and we head for the Blueberry. It's not always easy, being Shawn Spencer's best friend, but it's always sweet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **We're going to call it M simply because this could go anywhere.

**Spoilers: **Shouldn't be any, just dribble.

**A/N: **And another dip into the collection brings us "The Comedians," by Elvis Costello but found, in this instance, on the _Mystery Girl _album of the "Big O," Roy Orbison. The lines I've chosen are "They say that you will always be the last to know, they say that all that glitters is not gold. It's not just that you're never coming back to me, it's the bitter way that I was told."

**THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS**

So here I am, at a table in Tom Blair's Pub, on what is supposed to be my seventh _wedding_ anniversary, but which has somehow been turned instead to my first _separation_ anniversary. Funny how life works, sometimes, isn't it? Not that I'm laughing.

I call for another whiskey. The stuff they serve here is crap, and I'm pretty sure they're watering it down, but I don't care - drink enough of it, you still get drunk. I tried calling Victoria earlier, but she didn't answer. She's probably on another _date_, which just goes to show how seriously she's taking our supposed reconciliation efforts. Or maybe she's just screening me. She sure seems to be "out" an awful lot, lately.

I think back to one year ago. Okay, so _I'm_ the heel for not calling to let her know I was going to be late, _I'm_ the ass for forgetting it was our anniversary, but _sweet justice _I got called to a double homicide, I kind of had other things on my mind. I know I still should have taken a minute to call, I_ know _that, and I don't need a three hundred dollar an hour marriage counselor to tell me so, but given the fact that two innocent lives were summarily ended that night, you'd think _someone_ might be willing to cut me a little slack. Not that Torie gave me the chance to explain. When I finally _did_ get in that night, tired and ready to just drop into bed like a sack of bricks, my bags were packed and waiting for me on the porch. I suppose I deserved it. It still seems a little cold, though.

Lucinda - er, _Detective Berry _- says I'm fooling myself, that missing the anniversary was just the excuse Torie used to get rid of me. Sometimes it feels like she's right. Like when I stop to think about just how _quickly_ she found a new man to take my place, as if she had one ready and waiting. In which case, changing the locks and kicking me out seems just a little colder, somehow. I mean, she could've just _told _me.

Either I've gone through eighteen glasses of whiskey or I've got double vision. Either way, I'm pretty sure I've been over-served. I could chew the bartender out but it seems like too much effort, so I guess I'll go home. I grab the keys in my pocket before I realize that pulling myself over for DUI will be hard to explain in the morning, so I call a cab. Since nobody else is going to say it, I guess maybe I should.

Happy anniversary, Carlton.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

**Rating: **We're going to call it M simply because this could go anywhere.

**Spoilers: **Shouldn't be any, just dribble.

**A/N: **This one comes from a rather complicated place. There is a song called "Windmills in my Mind," by Noel Harrison, the theme from the movie _The Thomas Crown Affair_. In its original format it is something of a cure for insomnia, but this story doesn't come from that version. This story comes from the version presented on _The Muppet Show, _which is the very essence of tension. If you don't know what I mean then you can find the clip on YouTube if you look, or just play the original version of the song at high speeds, and you'll see what I mean. Chosen lyric is, "Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head. Why did summer go so quickly? Was it something that you said? Lovers walk along the shore, leave their footprints in the sand…or is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand?"

**THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS THIS IS WHERE THE STORY STARTS**

There were three assailants, two large men and a small woman, all of them wearing the same uniform of white slacks, white tees, and fierce expressions. One of the men had Lassiter's legs, the other had him by the shoulders, and the woman was actually _standing _on his back, walking up and down. The men were pounding their fists on him as hard as they could.

"You're a tough nut to crack, Detective," Shoulder-Man said grimly. "I don't think we've ever had this kind of trouble before."

"I can't _believe_ he hasn't given in, yet," Walking-Woman added in frustration. "This sucks. Like, _seriously."_

"You guys, I really think we're not going to get anything out of him," Leg-Man said.

"I agree," Lassiter said. "Look, I admire determination but why don't you just admit defeat?"

"Never," Shoulder-Man said. Lassiter had pegged him as the hard-case of the group. "This…this is our _job_, man."

"You can't save 'em all, Hasselhoff," Lassiter said. "Look, just give up and I'll tell the Chief I feel like a new man."

"I hate to agree with him, Mike," Leg-Man said, "but I think we've pretty much done all we can."

"Dammit," Shoulder-Man said, and flopped down onto a hard bench. "All right, guys, knock it off. Holy hell_, I _need a massage after this."

Leg-Man and Walking-Woman left off their efforts. "Dude, you should, like, talk to a doctor about getting on some anti-anxiety meds," Walking-Woman told Detective Lassiter as he pushed himself up off the massage table. "Or muscle relaxants."


End file.
